


The Politician in the Manor

by Miya_Morana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miya_Morana/pseuds/Miya_Morana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go undercover to solve a theft at Sweet Pines Manor, a private resort that caters only to same-sex couples who value their privacy high enough to pay their extortionate fees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Politician in the Manor

**Author's Note:**

> This is all entangled_now's fault, so this is for her. ♥ Also, written back in 2010 for the 'posing as a couple' square of my schmoop_bingo card. Beta-ed by tehomet.

“Remind me again why we can’t just let the police investigate?” John asks as he watches Sherlock rummage through his wardrobe, occasionally throwing clothes on John’s carefully made bed.

“Because,” Sherlock says, opening the drawer where John keeps his underwear –John makes a strangled annoyed noise, but he knows better than to think anything he might say about privacy would have any effect on the consulting detective– “the Sweet Pines community is very secretive and would just close up if any policeman was sent to investigate. Plus, Dinwiddie doesn’t want to take the risk of having his extracurricular activities leaked to the media, so he didn’t alert the police about the theft. And since I owe him a favour, I said I’d take care of it. I hate owing anyone anything. Here, put this on.”

John catches the black-and-white striped shirt with one hand.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Nothing, but we need to blend in. We’re going undercover.”

Sherlock stalks out of John’s bedroom, opens a cabinet in the corridor. He pushes a few things out of the way, fishes out a narrow black box with a triumphant “Ah-ha!”

“Going undercover as what?” John asks, and he has a very bad feeling about this whole thing.

“As a couple, evidently,” Sherlock says dismissively, and he quickly goes down the stairs to his own bedroom.

“Oh, of course, _evidently_!” John comments, and follows his flatmate.

Sherlock has opened a small, black suitcase on his bed and is throwing clothes into it, stuffing them into the case as if they were rags. John huffs, empties the suitcase on the bed and starts folding the clothes neatly.

“Would you care to explain for the non-genius in the room, _please_?” John asks, trying to sound patient.

Sherlock stops what he’s doing and turns around, looks at John like he’s amazed at how slow he is.

“The theft occurred at Sweet Pines Manor,” he says, like it explains everything.

John keeps his face carefully blank, and Sherlock sighs.

“It’s a private resort that caters only to same-sex couples who value their privacy highly enough to pay their extortionate fees.”

“Oh.” Well, that explains the posing as a couple thing, as well as the fact that Dinwiddie, a rising politician, decided to call in the favour Sherlock owed him instead of contacting the police.

“Yes, ‘oh,’” Sherlock agrees, and he goes back to throwing clothes at John, who packs them neatly in the black suitcase. “We’re joining Dinwiddie at the Sweet Pines tonight. I arranged for us to have a room for a whole week, and I checked, none of the guests are scheduled to leave before we do. Though I sincerely doubt we’ll need that long to solve the case.”

“How do you–? No, never mind, I don’t want to know that you hacked into the computer system of a highly secretive hotel resort. I’ll be upstairs finishing my own packing.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything as John leaves the room, too busy looking through his drawers for matching socks. On his way up the stairs, John texts Sarah, asking her to let the clinic know he won’t be there the next few days.

She texts him back, advising him to be careful and not to let Sherlock drag him into too dangerous situations, and John smiles, wondering again why things didn’t work out between them. Sarah is sweet, understanding and smart, but for some reason they’re much better at being friends than they ever were at dating.

He slides his phone in his pocket and picks up the striped shirt Sherlock had thrown him earlier. It’s one of his favourites, and for a second he wonders what it means about his tastes that Sherlock thinks it’s the best shirt for him to wear while pretending to be gay.

Eventually he just shrugs and puts the shirt on before packing all the stuff his flatmate threw on his bed. He has to go back downstairs to get his toothbrush and a few other things from the bathroom, but it doesn’t take him more than ten minutes to be all packed and ready to go.

As they hop into a cab and head to the railway station, John can’t help but wonder how someone as emotionless as Sherlock will ever be convincing in the role of a boyfriend.

***

John ignores the landscape flying by through the window, watching instead as Sherlock slicks his hair back with some sort of gel.

“Um, Sherlock? What are you doing, exactly?” he asks, because Sherlock isn’t usually the kind to fuss with hair products.

“Minimizing the chances of being recognized. Need I remind you we _are_ going undercover? By the way, you should now refer to me as Charles Smith, or since you qualify as a close friend to use the diminutive, as Charlie. Charles is the youngest son of a minor Scottish politician. Of course his father doesn’t know about his sexual orientation. You,” he hands John an ID card, “are Charles’ lover, John Dalton. You work in London as an accountant, the perfect cover to avoid questions about your job.”

John eyes the ID card, which shows the exact same photo as his real one. It looks official.

Dozens of questions fly through John’s head (such as how come Sherlock has a fake ID ready for John, or how does he expect people to believe he’s Scottish?), but they all fade away when he looks back at his flatmate.

Sherlock is now wearing a pair of glasses with thin, elegant frames. He looks much younger with them on, also much more… delicate? Something flutters in John’s stomach as Sherlock watches him patiently from behind the oval lenses.

The silence, broken only by the regular sound of the train’s wheels on the rails, stretches.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow above the glasses.

“Um, how did we meet?” John asks, trying to ignore how much more _human_ Sherlock looks like that.

“Does it matter?”

“Well, it is a question that people might ask, if we try to, you know, mingle. It would be best if our stories match.”

Sherlock seems to consider John’s explanation, or maybe he’s just trying to think of a way normal people meet each other. John has no idea.

“We can’t say we met in a bar,” John continues, trying to be helpful. “First, I don’t really know London’s gay bars; second, someone might be surprised not to have ever met us there. Maybe we met through a mutual friend?”

Sherlock makes a gesture, encouraging John to go on.

“Someone you would have been visiting in London, your cousin maybe?”

“That is excellent thinking, John,” Sherlock comments, and John almost starts, because Sherlock’s speech now has traces of an adorable Scottish accent, just light enough to sound completely natural. “My cousin Sarah introduced us when I came to visit her last year, and we quickly fell in love. Unfortunately, we only get to see each other every other week when I come down to London, and we’re tired of watching our backs when we go out to make sure no one recognizes me, since my father has quite a few business associates.”

“Which is why,” John finishes, “we decided to spend a week at Sweet Pines Manor.”

Sherlock nods. “Anything else we should know about our relationship?” he asks. “I’ve never gone undercover with a partner before,” he admits casually.

They spend the next twenty minutes discussing details, Sherlock looking like an A student, nodding every now and then, and John concentrating on the task at hand as to not think of how cute his flatmate looks with his hair tamed and the adorable glasses on.

They leave the train in a small town not very far North of London. There’s a man waiting for them at the station, carrying a discreet sign with their fake names on it. The man turns out to be their chauffeur.

They climb into the back seat of a black car only to find out once inside that the windows aren’t just tinted glass, they’ve been painted black.

“Part of the whole privacy thing, I guess,” John says, partly to reassure himself. “If the guests themselves don’t know where the Manor is exactly, there’s less risk of journalists finding it?”

“That much seems obvious, John,” Sherlock says, and John sighs. Even with his new accent, Sherlock manages to sound almost chastising.

When you can’t see outside, a twenty-minute car drive can be rather boring, especially when your travelling companion isn’t speaking, too busy tracking the vehicle’s movements. Sherlock hasn’t said anything, but John knows him well enough to guess that’s what he’s doing. 

Sherlock hates not knowing things.

John passes the time by observing his flatmate. The long fingers tapping a regular rhythm on one knee, the way the glasses soften the angular shape of Sherlock’s face, how his lips move sometimes, stretching in a half-smile when the car takes a clear turn in one direction or another.

Finally, the car slows down and then stops, and the chauffeur opens his door. John leans close to Sherlock, asks in a hushed voice, “How long would it take you to pinpoint our location on a map?”

“Approximately 2.5 seconds,” Sherlock smiles, conspiratorially, right before the chauffeur opens the back door.

“Welcome to Sweet Pines Manor, sirs,” he tells them as they get out of the car to discover the elegant façade of a huge mansion. 

As the chauffeur goes round the car to get their luggage out of the boot, Sherlock suddenly takes John’s hand in his own. John starts, looks up at Sherlock, slightly confused for a second until he remembers they are posing as a couple. He smiles then, and when Sherlock smiles back John manages to relax just a bit.

They follow the chauffeur, who’s carrying their luggage, into the luxurious reception hall of the Manor.

“Mr Smith and Mr Dalton I presume,” says the receptionist when they get to her desk. “Welcome to Sweet Pines Manor. I’m going to register you both, then I’ll have someone give you the tour of the residence before taking you to your room, unless you’d prefer to go there directly?”

Daphne –that’s her name, according to her nametag– smiles at them, flashing pearly-white teeth set perfectly straight in a mouth that seems strangely too wide. Her blond hair is cropped short in a kind of pixy-cute haircut that makes her look younger than she probably is. She’s radiating energy and cheerfulness, though John thinks it’s a bit forced.

They take the tour first. A bellboy, probably no more than seventeen shows them the dining area, which opens to a large, beautiful terrace with a few tables under the grapevines, and the drawing room, where card games and concerts are organized in the evening. Then he takes them outside to have a look at the gardens. He informs them about the golf course and the tennis courts, and tells them where to find the stables if they fancy a horse ride.

All the while, Sherlock’s hand is warm against John’s palm. When they wait for the lift that’ll take them to their room, Sherlock winds his arm around John’s waist, and John tenses. Sherlock lowers his face to John’s neck, and John is half-expecting to feel firm lips brush against his skin.

“Relax,” Sherlock breathes into his ear, then he straightens up.

John can’t say if he’s relieved or disappointed that the detective didn’t actually kiss him. He’s a bit confused and a lot embarrassed when he steps into the lift, Sherlock’s arm still firmly wound around him.

Their guide leaves them at the door to their room after having told them how to call Reception and Room Service. They untangle as the door closes behind them.

The room is more of a suite, with a sitting room separate from the bedroom. Only the sofa is clearly made to seat no more than two people, so it’s much too short for an adult to sleep on. Even John, who’s far from being as tall as Sherlock, wouldn’t fit on that, not without his back killing him after what would probably be the worst night’s sleep of his life.

“We’ll have to share the bed,” Sherlock states from behind John, his voice completely matter-of-fact.

“Yeah, I guess so,” John sighs, trying to will the thumping of his heart to quiet down back to a normal pace.

This is ridiculous, he tells himself. He wasn’t interested in Sherlock before, not in _that way_ , and some cute glasses and an adorable accent aren’t going to change that. He shakes himself, looks for their suitcases, which have been brought up by another member of staff while they were on their tour.

Plus, even if he _was_ interested –which he definitely _isn’t_ – Sherlock doesn’t feel that way, anyway. 

As they bring their luggage into the bedroom part of the suite, John wonders if Sherlock’s even _capable_ of romantic feelings. He did tell him, that night they ran through London after the taxi, that he considered himself married to his job.

There’s a discreet knock on the door about twenty minutes later. It turns out to be their client, Dinwiddie. The man slips through the door swiftly, anxious not to be seen.

“Sherlock, old friend!” he exclaims once the door is closed. His voice is the kind that can carry effortlessly across a football field, and John is glad the walls are thick.

Dinwiddie, who is far from being a thin man, wraps his arms around Sherlock in a bear-hug. 

“I do need to breathe, Paul,” Sherlock gently tells him, his voice slightly strangled as his pale face turns a little pink.

“Oops, sorry.” Dinwiddie lets go of the detective, turns to John. “And you must be Doctor Watson, Sherlock’s new partner-in-crime! Well, Sherlock’s _first_ partner-in-crime, actually. Nice to meet you!”

John shakes the politician’s hand, quite happy to be spared the hugging treatment.

“Likewise,” he answers.

Dinwiddie’s handshake lasts just a little too long for John’s comfort. He also notices the gold band on the man’s left ring finger, and John decides that no, he really doesn’t like him.

“Tell me everything I need to know,” Sherlock asks, taking a seat on the sofa. Dinwiddie sits next to him, leaving John to sit in the armchair opposite them.

John could have figured out the man’s a politician just by the way he tells them his story. Not only does he use a rich and varied vocabulary as well as perfect English grammar, but he makes precise hand gestures to illustrate his tale, just the right amount to bring his story to life without overdoing it. He also manages to make himself sound both like a poor innocent victim and some sort of hero, even though he hasn’t done anything particularly innocent, and certainly nothing heroic.

Dinwiddie came here with Pierre, his current lover, a young man he met while on holiday in the south of France. This morning, they went down to the dinning room to have breakfast there instead of calling room service as they usually do. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing; Dinwiddie wanted to enjoy his coffee under the bright sunshine. He remembers leaving his cufflinks on the nightstand because he had rolled up his shirt sleeves.

When he and Pierre came back to their room, the cufflinks had disappeared. In their place there was a note, which asked for one hundred thousand pounds to be transferred to an account in the Cayman Islands by the end of the week, if Dinwiddie didn’t want the cufflinks to make their way back to his wife along with an explanation of where they had been found.

“You see,” Dinwiddie explains, “the cufflinks were a gift from her, and she inherited them from her late father. I wear them every time we go to some official dinner together, so she’s bound to notice it quickly if they disappear, anyway. It’s an election year and I just can’t afford a scandal right now, but I doubt I could transfer that much money without her noticing it too, not mentioning the fact that I don’t want to. So as you can see, I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. That’s why I called you, my dear Sherlock. I figured if anyone can help me identify the thief and get back what’s mine, it would be you.”

He smiles at Sherlock, his big hand patting Sherlock’s knee and lingering there just a little bit too long. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice it though.

“Did you bring the note?” Sherlock asks calmly.

“Of course.” Dinwiddie produces the note from his jacket’s inside pocket. Sherlock takes it and reads it quickly. Dinwiddie watches with a confused frown as Sherlock then passes it to John.

“Was the room broken into or did the thief use a key?” John asks after quickly scanning the note. Sherlock’s approving smile -a mere stretch of his lips too small for most people to notice, really- warms something inside of him.

“There wasn’t any blatant sign of forced entry, but I’m no expert in that matter, unlike our friend here,” Dinwiddie says, grinning at Sherlock.

“I’ll have a look at it then,” Sherlock declares. “I’ll also need to ask a few question of your lover. Meanwhile, will you take John to meet some of the people you know who are staying here? I’m using the Charles Smith alias, of course.”

“Of course,” Dinwiddie agrees, though he’s frowning again.

They leave Sherlock to investigate Dinwiddie’s room, and John follows the politician down to the drawing room, where a dozen men and two women are enjoying a late afternoon drink. Dinwiddie introduces him as the friend of an old friend, and John tries to ignore Dinwiddie’s hand at the small of his back.

He recognizes a few of them, politicians mostly, a popular reporter from the BBC, an actress he knows he’s seen in several movies but whose name he can never remember. They are all friendly to him, though maybe a little bit wary. John can’t honestly blame them, he too would be wary of anyone Dinwiddie would introduce.

A young man, probably in his early twenties, joins them half–an hour later and Dinwiddie wraps an arm around him, possessively. Pierre, John guesses, and his theory is confirmed when the boy starts babbling with the strongest French accent he’s ever heard. It’s like the man isn’t even trying to imitate the way words should sound, well past cute and exotic and straight to downright irritating.

“Yes, he _is_ always like that,” Philip Davis, a rich businessman, whispers in his ear as Dinwiddie laughs at something his lover said that John isn’t sure he quite understood. “The kid is hot, but damn, he just cannot close his mouth for a minute.”

John smiles at Davis, and takes the opportunity to start up a conversation with the man. It’s obvious John can’t exactly relate to these rich and famous people, that he’s not part of their world, but he’s quite good at fitting in, he thinks. 

They’re about to make their way to the dining area when Davis’ partner elbows him.

“Look at that handsome guy,” he stage-whispers, and all eyes turn to the man entering the room.

John turns and watches Sherlock make his way towards them. His heart is thumping in his chest as Sherlock smiles brightly at him. For a second, John imagines what it would feel like if Sherlock were indeed his boyfriend, if he had this brilliant and sexy man all to himself, knowing that almost everyone in the room fancies him.

Then he remembers it’s all an act, and the smile on his lips wavers slightly. Sherlock wraps an arm around him as he greets everyone with a somewhat shy smile.

Dinner goes well, though Sherlock doesn’t speak much, leaving most of the talking to John. He even _blushes_ when Dinwiddie makes a lewd comment at him, and once again John is amazed by Sherlock’s acting skills. If this consulting detective thing hadn’t worked out, Sherlock would have made an excellent actor.

He tells him so later, in their room, while Sherlock is brushing his teeth in the bathroom. John quickly puts on sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“I sincerely doubt I would have found that career path very fulfilling,” Sherlock says from the bathroom after he spat the toothpaste out. There’s the sound of running water, and John can hear the other man rinse his mouth as meticulously as he does everything.

“Not enough mystery and adventure?” John ventures as he sits awkwardly on the side of the bed.

Sherlock’s head pops out of the bathroom, an annoyed frown directed at John.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. As if I was doing my job for the excitement. I do it for the truth, and there is little of that in an actor’s career.”

John makes a face, his lips thinning and his eyebrows rising up, but doesn’t comment. Then Sherlock walks out of the bathroom, a robe draped around his slim body. His bare feet make no sound on the thick carpeting.

Sherlock takes the robe off, throws it on a chair before climbing into bed. He’s only wearing very tight boxer shorts, and John finds it hard to swallow. He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, then slides under the sheets.

He very carefully stays on his side of the bed.

***

When John wakes up, there’s a warm body plastered against his back and an arm wrapped around him, a hand spread flat on his stomach, under his shirt. Sherlock’s breathing is deep and even, his breath prickling John’s neck, and John doesn’t know what to do.

He should move Sherlock’s hand off of him, should roll out of his reach. He should pretend this never happened, and that he never felt warm and comfortable in his friend’s arms.

There’s a subtle change in Sherlock’s breathing, and John would have missed it if he hadn’t been holding his own breath. Sherlock moves even closer, and John’s heartbeat speeds up when warm lips brush against his neck.

“Do you know that you are terribly distracting?” Sherlock asks, and his voice is a low rumble, the shadow of sleep making the detective’s speech slower than usual. “I have tried to ignore it, but your sudden realisation that you fancy me isn’t helping at all.”

John doesn’t even bother denying it. Sherlock would only have to lower his hand a few inches to call him on the lie anyway. Instead, he slowly turns his head to look over his shoulder at Sherlock’s ridiculous, handsome face.

“Are you going to do something about it then?” he asks, half-surprised at his own boldness.

Sherlock’s lips are hard and demanding. He kisses like it’s a competition, a challenge of will and wits, invading John’s mouth, ravishing it. John lets Sherlock roll him on his back, lets him push his legs apart and slide between them. He surrenders his body to Sherlock’s hands and mouth, lets him do whatever he wants with him, finally admitting to himself how much he’s been wanting this, exactly this, for months and months now.

Sherlock’s clever mouth travels down his torso, warm and greedy, teeth scraping skin. John doesn’t even know when his t-shirt disappeared. He does notice it, however, when Sherlock hooks his long fingers into his sweatpants, drags them off him. Then John doesn’t know anything anymore, because Sherlock’s mouth is on his dick, swallowing him.

John fists his hands into Sherlock’s curly hair, stares into Sherlock’s blue eyes that never look away, never close, as if Sherlock was studying his every reaction. John has just enough self-control not to thrust up into that hot, delicious mouth. Instead, he lets Sherlock control everything, and the heat in Sherlock’s eyes lets him know how much this pleases him.

He has barely the time to warn Sherlock before he’s coming, harder than he can remember coming since he was a teenager. Sherlock doesn’t pull off; he swallows it all. Then, when John’s spent and high on endorphins, Sherlock climbs on top of him, straddles his hips and kisses him again, rough and greedy. 

John wraps a hand around Sherlock’s erection while they kiss, and starts jerking him off. Sherlock moans into his mouth, low and decadent, and soon he’s coming over John’s stomach. Sherlock is left panting against John’s lips, and they stay like that for a long minute. Then John smiles, softly, tentatively, and Sherlock huffs amusement, letting his face drop to John’s collarbone.

Later, when they’ve taken a long and enjoyable shower together and are finally getting dressed, John asks,

“So, have you figured out who the thief is yet?”

“Of course I have!” Sherlock states, matter of factly. “The question is, have you?” He smiles at John, sits on the bed to put his shoes on.

“Well, I doubt it’s any of the politicians,” John starts, putting his shirt on. “They’re way too scared of their own secret coming out to take that risk. Emma and Lizzy were having breakfast on the terrace when it all happened; same goes for Davis and his boyfriend. It still leaves us with several suspects I’m afraid. What did you find out in Dinwiddie’s room?”

Sherlock gets up. “The room was opened with a key,” he says as he heads back into the bathroom to slick his hair back with some product. “There were shoeprints on the carpeting, all around the nightstand. High heels.”

“Emma and Lizzy are the only female customers here,” John says, frowning, as puts his wristwatch on.

“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaims, then he takes a penknife out of his pocket and crouches down under the sink. “But you just confirmed that, as I thought, they couldn’t have done it.”

Sherlock then proceeds to unscrew the sink’s drain. He gets back on his feet and turns the water on. Inevitably, water starts dripping all over the floor, and Sherlock smiles, satisfied, then turns the water off.

“Then who did it?” John asks “And what the hell are you doing?”

“Think John, who could have had the key to Paul’s room?” Sherlock asks, stepping out of the bathroom to grab John’s shoulders.

“Oh! Of course, that makes sense. Wait, were are you going?”

“To get the manager and Paul. In ten minutes, call Reception and ask them to send someone up. At this hour there’s only one person on call, I checked the staff schedule.”

Sherlock opens the door, and John grabs his arm. “Wait!” he says, then fetches the spectacles that were still on the nightstand, forgotten. He puts them on Sherlock, marvels again at the way they make him look younger, more innocent. He can’t help pulling Sherlock down for a quick kiss before letting him go.

***

Daphne’s smile is way too bright and enthusiastic for this early in the morning, John thinks as he opens the door. He points her towards the bathroom, watches how the spiky heels of her shoes sink into the carpeting, leaving small round impressions behind her.

She keeps her smile plastered on as she steps into the puddle of water. She looks down under the sink, then turns on the water to see where the leak comes from.

“What did you do?” she asks sweetly, as she turns the water off.

“Nothing,” John says. “It was working just fine last night, and this morning when we turned it on, it was leaking water everywhere.”

“Of course,” she smiles, and John can see the hard lines around her mouth, the angry gleam in her eyes. She stares at him, and John raises an eyebrow.

“Well?”

“I’ll call a plumber. They’ll be here shortly, don’t worry.” 

She’s about to walk out of the bathroom, so John blocks her way with an arm.

“You can’t just leave it like that, there’s water everywhere,” he complains. “I could slip and fall, and break something!”

“Then just stay out of the bathroom until the plumber’s finished,” Daphne smiles.

“Surely you’re not considering leaving this bathroom like that, miss. I would hate to have to tell your boss how poorly you treat his guests.”

He can literally hear her grit her teeth as she says “Fine,” and opens a closet. While she starts mopping the tiled floor, John tries to think of something else to make her stay longer.

Luckily for him, the room door opens before Daphne’s finished cleaning, and Sherlock, Dinwiddie and a very angry man John has never seen before walk in.

“Mr Acker!” Daphne exclaims. The surprise on her face is the first genuine emotion John has seen her show.

“Miss Wodehouse,” the stranger says with barely contained fury. “Perhaps would you care to explain how _these_ found their way into your locker?” He’s holding out a pair of expensive-looking cufflinks.

Daphne turns as white as the towel she’s clutching in her perfectly manicured fingers. It becomes ugly after that, and John drags Sherlock out of the room as the hotel manager proceeds to yell at his soon-to-be former employee.

“So,” John starts as he leans against the wall in the hallway. “What now?”

“Well, I suppose now that the case is solved, we should head back to London.”

“People to see, crimes to solve…” John offers with a tiny smile. “No rest for the wicked and all that.”

“Sure,” Sherlock concurs. “It’s a pity though.”

“What is?”

“Paul _did_ pay for our room up until the end of the week.”

“Oh,” John tries not to smile too widely. “Then it would be awfully impolite not to stay at least a few more days, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose it would,” Sherlock agrees with a smile, leaning into John’s space.

John hooks his fingers into the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, drags him down into a searing kiss. They part reluctantly when someone clears their throat next to them. Sherlock shoots Dinwiddie a look that could kill through his glasses.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the politician says, taking a step back. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me out. I can count on your discretion, right?” He laughs nervously.

“Of course,” Sherlock snaps.

“Good, good.” 

Dinwiddie licks his lips nervously. Behind him, the manager is walking out a teary-eyed Daphne. Sherlock sighs loudly.

“Now if you’ll excuse us,” he tells Dinwiddie as he grabs John’s arm, “we have private matters to discuss.”

John lets Sherlock drag him back into the room. The door makes a satisfying sound as it closes behind them. Though not as satisfying as the sounds he then proceeds to drag out of Sherlock.


End file.
